


The Interrupted Masque

by anactoriatalksback



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Twelve Dancing Princesses Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 04:43:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoriatalksback/pseuds/anactoriatalksback
Summary: Richard Hendricks is dying. He wakes up with his fingers twitching and bleeding. The soles of his feet are muddy even though he’s been in bed all night. Father Donald Dunn has three nights to find out what ails him and cast it out.





	The Interrupted Masque

He is suffered to enter through the front door, which surprises him. Donald had expected to have to slink in through the tradesmen’s entrance with the night-soil carrier. He fulfils, after all, a similar function.

But no, he is shewn into a handsome withdrawing-room and served excellent tea in what he is gratified to note is almost certainly at least the third-best china, while his hostess sees to his comfort and steps through initial pleasantries with pinched efficiency.

‘Why do you believe,’ he says after a decorous interval has passed, ‘that Mr. Hendricks needs – my services?’

Lady Hall sighs. Her pretty face is drawn, and she does not even trouble to mask her vexation. Donald is a little cowed by her prodigious and brittle elegance, and comforted that her ire seems not to be directed at him. ‘I _don’t_ believe it,’ she says, with the weary resignation of one taking arms against a sea of indignities, ‘but I want to rule out every possibility.’

Donald nods.

Lady Hall’s brother composes (or rather composed) music – darting, swooping pieces of deceptive simplicity – that has set Europe by its ears. He appeared five years ago, blinking and unready, from the genteel obscurity of the lesser gentry into the harsh glare of the _bon ton_ ’s love – a love no less demanding for being uncomprehending and almost certainly fickle. He writes concertos for the violin and piccolo and dulcimer, for trumpet and harpsichord. He will never write an opera, he says, and it seems he despises the narrative form. His music is fiercely, impatiently demanding of those who play it and those who hear. Society contrives to enjoy it anyhow, and elects to find Hendricks’ horror of crowds and people charming.

Some of London’s raptness with her brother is shed on Monica Hendricks as well – enough for her mamma to receive vouchers at Almack’s and for her to catch the eye of Peter Gregory, ninth Baron Hall, he of the halting, metallic voice production and the titanic fortune. There are fully thirty years between the pair, but presumably Monica Hendricks is one of the peculiar and quixotic investments by which Lord Hall has added to the fortune he inherited.

And now Richard Hendricks lies abed in his sister’s house, silent and wasting. He wakes up, says Lady Hall, with his fingers twitching and bleeding. The soles of his feet are muddy even though he’s been in bed all night.

‘You’re wondering,’ says Lady Hall, ‘why I am not satisfied that this is a disease,’ she hesitates, ‘of the mind.’

Donald is silent. In truth, he has not been wondering – Lady Hall strikes him as a woman who would have sought out and proceeded methodically through all available natural explanations for her brother’s somnambulism.

‘I locked his door, Father,’ says Lady Hall, ‘and posted a guard outside all night. There is no possible way for him to have left his room without my knowing of it.’

Donald nods. Hendricks could have bribed the guard, he thinks but does not say. Lady Hall throws him a look and says ‘And once I kept watch myself. I stayed awake all night, Father. The next morning, there he was: fingers splayed out, mud on the soles of his feet.’

Donald opens his eyes at that. Lady Hall, he thinks, is nigh-incorruptible: or at the very least, could not be corrupted by whatever blandishments a musician could offer.

‘And this makes you suspect,’ he lowers his voice, ‘demonic possession?’

Lady Hall winces. ‘I don’t,’ she says, and this time at least a little of her annoyance is for Donald, ‘I’m simply – I don’t know what to do, Father.’ She sighs and looks off into the distance before turning back to look at Donald. She has schooled her features into a briskness that Donald suspects is habitual to her. ‘Do you consent to my terms, Father?’

Donald is to have three nights to stand vigil over Hendricks, to determine what ails him and cast it out.

‘Why three nights, my lady?,’ asks Donald, a little curious.

Lady Hall looks a little embarrassed. ‘Any number is arbitrary,’ she says, and Donald thinks perhaps he has surprised her in a moment of romanticism. ‘I’ll take you to my brother.’

Donald is taken upstairs to a large and handsome chamber with a clavichord by the window. Lady Hall’s devotion and Lord Hall’s indulgence cannot be doubted – the expense must have been considerable. In the bed reposes a slight man, whom Lady Hall greets with an affectionate kiss to his thin cheek.

‘I’ve had a trestle-bed made for you, Father,’ she says. Donald murmurs his thanks, though he thinks she would look askance at him if he used it. A test, perhaps.

Lady Hall leaves with a warning backward glance cast in Donald’s direction. Donald hears the key being turned and the grind of the bolt, and turns to face his charge.

‘Good evening, Mr. Hendricks,’ he says to the man in the bed.

‘Good evening,’ he says, and hesitates, ‘er…?’

‘Father Donald,’ says Donald, ‘at your service.’

The man flinches. He’s even thinner than Donald had first supposed, cheeks sunken in, huge and very blue eyes staring over the purple smears beneath them. There are two precise circles of scarlet on his cheeks, and his curls are sticking to his forehead.

‘Father?,’ says Hendricks. Donald nods.

Hendricks frowns. ‘We’re not – Hall’s family isn’t, either –‘

‘No,’ says Donald, ‘I understand that.’

‘So even if you were to,’ and Hendricks swallows, ‘perform my last – er..er…we’re not – I’m not – a, a Papist, so - ’

‘Upon my word, Mr. Hendricks,’ says Donald, ‘there was no such thought in your sister’s mind.’ Although, as he says so, he wonders with some unease whether it’s true. Then he thinks of Lady Hall’s pinched, determined face, and decides it is.

‘But,’ says Hendricks, ‘you _are_ here because of my’ he swallows, ‘where I, where I go?’

Donald nods. Smiles, as reassuringly as he can contrive.

Hendricks nods. Slumps back against his pillows and picks up a sheet of paper and a quill. He begins to write, nib flying across the sheet, curl falling forward on his forehead.

He is very beautiful, thinks Donald, with the detached magnanimity peculiar to those spying a rare orchid through a crack in a garden wall.

He thinks, watching Hendricks’ thin fingers, of the gnarled veined hands of one of his parishioners. Gloria Abercrombie lying frail and small against her pillows, her smile gummy and sweet. Her children had their own affairs. They were preoccupied, perhaps a little relieved at their mother’s seemly departure. The funeral was well-attended. All was in order.

Donald is not, of course, unused to death. He is death’s footman, its usher, and he has held many hands as they are passed to the final mystery. Children can die. Children do die, and Donald thinks sometimes it is a powerful and wonderful mystery that they live. They do live, though, and Donald knows intimately what they can withstand.

Donald thinks sometimes that a shriving is not a cleansing but a witnessing. For a moment, he thinks, at least one moment, all should be seen.

This is not Hendricks’ need. Hendricks is well-attended, he has made something. He is seen, thinks Donald, and that should be enough.

He thinks, whatever ails Hendricks, that he would like to be able to cast it out.

Since Hendricks is absorbed in his work, Donald walks over to the clavichord. The wood is old, the stain rich and aged. The mark, when Donald bends to examine it, is Florentine.

‘Do you play?’

Donald turns. Hendricks is looking at him, head to one side.

‘A little,’ says Donald, moving away from the instrument.

‘Will you play this?,’ says Hendricks, holding out the sheet. As Donald moves closer, he can see the tremor in his hand. His mouth twitches when Donald’s eyes meet his.

‘Mr. Hendricks,’ says Donald, ‘I – I fear I have…overpraised…..my facility. It would – wound me – terribly to think that I had lain…violent hands….on your music.’

Hendricks fidgets, the flush in his cheek a warm pink. ‘No…no violence, I promise, you wouldn’t - ’

Donald looks at the sheet in his hands. He is afraid, terribly, of botching the fragile promise on the page with his nervous, ungainly fingers. Even his want, he thinks, is clumsy, a perspiring _parvenu_ knocking down tables.

He is about to push back the sheet when Hendricks says ‘Please.’ Donald’s eyes fly up to meet his. ‘I – I want to hear it. Before.’ He swallows, and Donald’s heart squeezes.

‘Mr. Hendricks, please,’ he says, ‘You must not – please don’t lose heart. I cannot – I cannot permit you to speak in this vein.’

‘Don’t permit it, then,’ says Hendricks. ‘Play. I’ll be quiet.’

Donald takes the paper and returns to the clavichord. He places the sheet on the stand and considers it.

It begins simply enough – four notes, delicate and clear. They repeat, twist and loop and dally and leap and retreat. Begin again.

It’s a _perpetuum mobile_ , Donald realises, and also thinks that that does not make it easier to master.

For his apprehension is borne out: the sequence is a will o’the wisp, slipping between his fingers, perpetually out of reach. He finds he’s perspiring, leaning in to read the music as if he can pull it into him and onto the clavichord by doing so, and wincing miserably as he slips.

By the third time it happens, he hears an impatient click of the tongue.

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Hendricks,’ says Donald, ‘please, I warned you I - ’

The hand on his shoulder burns through his robe. Donald jerks as Hendricks says ‘Move.’

Donald makes to spring up but Hendricks tuts again. Sits down next to him. He’s so thin Donald can see the bone piercing the delicate skin over his shoulders.

‘Mr. Hendricks, I think you ought to be resting.’

‘I will,’ he says, hand splayed out over the keyboard. ‘I just want to - ’

He leans forward. His nose has a scalpel’s sharpness, Donald thinks. He seems to be inhaling the notes on the page – unnecessary, Donald thinks, they came from him – and then his fingers twitch on the keys.

He plays – well enough. He’s a competent enough performer, but Donald finds his touch a thought mechanical.  

He stops, a frown in his eyes.

‘It’s different,’ he mutters, ‘when _you_ play it.’ He turns, his gaze accusatory.

Donald doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t respond. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he says instead.

Hendricks hunches a shoulder. ‘It’s not right yet,’ he says, and says again ‘It’s not _right_ ’ and his tone is fretful, tears beneath his voice.

‘Mr. Hendricks,’ says Donald, ‘Please, I must ask that you rest.’

Hendricks turns impatiently, but Donald is insistent. Hendricks’ fingers are trembling, and there is perspiration on his brow and upper lip.

‘Please,’ says Donald, and Hendricks sighs, seeming to fold in on himself.

Donald rises and looks meaningly at Hendricks until he does the same. He walks Hendricks back to his bed and watches as he lies down.

‘Good night, Mr. Hendricks,’ he says.

Hendricks nods, lips twitching.

Donald sits by the clavichord with his Bible. The night is clear, and moonlight streams in through the window. Silver washes Hendricks’ pale sharp face and Donald thinks that it will be easy, after all, to stay awake.

But he is mistaken. At length, he feels the brush of something very delicate and very soft by his cheek, comes to himself with a start and realises with a hot flood of guilt that he had dozed off.

Hendricks is still in his bed, thinks Donald with relief, a white beam picking him out in sharp relief, moving gently over him, tipping up his chin…

Donald frowns. Something about the light is not quite right. Something intent, something pointed and purposeful.

Hendricks turns his head, sighing softly, and then sits up. Slowly he puts his feet on the ground. Slowly he rises, shivering slightly in his thin night-shirt. Slowly he makes for the fireplace.

Donald opens his mouth to wake him – Hendricks’ eyes are still closed, he is quite evidently not under his own power – but then under whose?

Donald tries to rise but finds himself held – firmly, inexorably – in his chair. He watches as Hendricks approaches the fireplace, crackling importantly. He struggles against his moonlit bonds and tries desperately to call out a warning, but he is mute as well as immobile. Hendricks walks to the fire and vanishes through the flames.

Donald can feel the bonds vanish abruptly. He starts from his chair and runs to the fireplace. His fingers pass, tremblingly, over the mantelpiece. Somewhere, somewhere there must be a door, a catch, a release, _something_.

‘Make haste,’ says a voice. ‘I can’t hold the door open much longer, it’s singeing my fur.’

‘ _And_ my feathers,’ says another voice.

Both voices, despite the apparent urgency of the situation, manage to imply that Donald’s lackadaisicality is a tremendous inconvenience to their owners.

Wonderingly, Donald steps closer to the flames. He can feel their heat on his thighs and his face as he crouches and peers in.

‘That’s right,’ say the second voice. ‘This way. There’s no need to crouch, you know.’

‘He’s a Jesuit,’ says the first voice, ‘I don’t think he knows any other way than to kneel.’

Donald takes a breath, reminds himself to have faith, shuts his eyes and thrusts his face forward into the flames.

He gasps as the prickle on his face gives way to a cool clammy wave pawing at him, unpleasant but not actively malevolent. A chink opens before him, light and laughter playing on the other side distantly. Donald pushes at the chink and crawls through.

He rises, dusting himself off, and looks about him.

He’s in a library. Grand once, but in obvious disrepair. The cabinet in the corner is Buhl, but so thickly encrusted with dust that Donald fears to touch it. The pile of the carpet beneath his feet is thinning, and the books on the shelves give off the plaintive sweetness of years of neglect.

‘Nobody comes here,’ says one of the voices. Donald looks around him and is met with a sigh. ‘Down here.’

Donald looks down and blinks. A large black tomcat is watching him, eyes gleaming yellow in the dark.

‘Well, you woke up, at any rate,’ says the other voice, and Donald looks wildly about him. He yelps then as he feels a beak nip his ear, ungently.

A raven is perched on his shoulder. Black eyes survey him and then the voice says ‘It was the deuce of a job waking you, you know.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Donald, ‘I didn’t mean to sleep.’

‘Oh, well, if you didn’t _mean_ to,’ says the cat.

Donald nods meekly, but catches in the timbre of the cat and the bird the well-worn and unhurried rhythms of the born complainer. Further apologies would likely not add to their relish – may, in fact, impede it.

‘Where are we?,’ he asks instead.

The cat shrugs, an elegant gesture. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes,’ says Donald, ‘if we are to find Mr. Hendricks, I must know where he is.’

‘He’s next door,’ says the bird, ‘listen. The waltz is ending.’

And indeed, Donald hears the faint strains of a waltz dying down. He goes to the door of the library and walks down a corridor towards a ballroom.

When he reaches its entrance, he pauses, taking it in. Laughter, the swirl of dominos, scarlet, blue and black, the snap of fans, exquisitely-fashioned masks, and Donald’s heart sinks. It will be harder to find Hendricks in this dense swirl of revellers.

‘That will not be your concern,’ says the cat, seeming to understand Donald’s frown. ‘He’s at the pianoforte.’

Donald looks down at the cat. ‘Can we – is it possible for me to find our host and ask permission to leave with him?’

‘You can _try_ ,’ says the raven. ‘They don’t want him to leave.’

‘I can imagine that I would be tremendously reluctant to relinquish a, a prize such as Mr. Hendricks, but surely they must - ’

The music starts again, and Donald can feel the cat stiffening, his fur rising.

‘A quadrille,’ he says quietly. ‘That’s new.’

‘What does it mean?,’ asks Donald.

The cat says ‘If I were a betting man - ’

‘-Which you are –,’ says the raven.

‘- Hold your tongue – if I were a betting man, I would wager that the host will indeed be reluctant to relinquish Hendricks.’

The music is deft, flickering, gathering pace dizzyingly. Donald marvels at the wondrous unflustered grace of the dancers, weaving and twinkling and flourishing without missing a beat.

‘He can’t keep this up,’ says the raven. ‘You have to do something.’

Donald nods. He walks into the ballroom. The raven has remained in the doorway with the cat, he notices, and doesn’t know whether to be alarmed or relieved.

He cannot, of course, interrupt the dance, so he attempts to make his way around the edges of the floor. But every step he takes brings him face-to-face with a dancer, eyes glittering behind a mask. He murmurs an apology, backs away and steps to the left – only to nearly trip over the tail of a domino. The dancer whisks away, seemingly entirely unperturbed by the intrusion or Donald’s yelp.

Hours seem to pass, and Donald has not advanced a step, although he is shaking and weary. It is only when he retreats that he is suffered to pass.

‘That was diverting,’ remarks the cat when Donald returns to them.

‘But manifestly bootless,’ says the bird.

‘They seemed to know,’ says Donald, ‘precisely where I would be or where I would place my feet, before I knew it myself. How?’

The cat snorts. ‘ _I_ could tell that,’ he says, ‘and I’m not some sort of revenant automaton.’

‘Revenant?,’ says Donald.

‘You’ll see,’ says the bird, ‘as dawn approaches.’

The light in the ballroom is changing, shifting, turning paler and weaker. As the beams in the ballroom move, watery but determined, Donald can see that the nap of the dominos is worn, almost threadbare in places, and what he sees shifting beneath the robes gleams white with a nervous green scurrying beneath the skin. The room now looks exhausted but with a waiting hunger.

‘The dance is ending,’ says the cat. ‘You should leave.’

‘Not without Mr. Hendricks,’ says Donald, and the raven’s claws tighten painfully on his shoulder.

‘You can’t help him,’ says the raven. ‘Not tonight. You need to leave. Now.’

‘But - ’

‘Tomorrow,’ says the raven. ‘Now go. We’ll hold the door open for you.’

‘But if I - ’

‘No,’ says the cat. Donald looks down at him and recoils at what he sees. The cat’s bones are standing out under his fur, his tail mottled and bedraggled.

‘Why are you - ’

‘You have to leave,’ says the raven, and Donald can feel the trembling in its claws. ‘We cannot be awake much longer.’

Donald looks between his companions and nods. They let him out through the fireplace again, urgent but fading, and Donald collapses into his chair. The fire’s gone out, he sees.

* * *

 

Hendricks wakes, of course, with muddy feet. To Donald’s disquiet, the bags under his eyes are deeper, the tremor in his hands more pronounced. He shivers now, which his sister notices with tight lips and an accusing glance cast in Donald’s direction.

‘Have you discovered what is happening to him?,’ she asks him in an undervoice.

Donald bites his lip. ‘No,’ he says, ‘but it is – I can tell you, Lady Hall, that your apprehensions about the agency behind his disappearances was not unfounded.’

Her frown deepens. ‘What agency?’

‘That I do not yet know,’ says Donald. ‘He is – detained – at night, at the pleasure of a very exigent host.’

‘Detained?,’ she says. ‘By whom? How can we prevent it?’

‘I will find out,’ says Donald.

‘See that you do,’ she says. ‘I am not in the habit of rewarding effort alone.’

Donald winces, but finds her clipped peremptoriness strangely soothing. She looks at his face and sighs. ‘I apologise, Father. You have already told me more than any of your predecessors could.’

Donald bows his head. The reproof, he thinks, with a prickle of shame, is well-earned, and her generosity more than he deserves.

That evening, Hendricks wants him to play again. His eyes are blazing in the lamplight of the chamber, his cheeks are blooming hectically, and Donald thinks he is hard to gainsay.

‘If you would prefer, Mr. Hendricks,’ he says, ‘I am sure I could find a much more skilled - ’

‘You,’ says Hendricks, thin hand encircling Donald’s wrist, ‘please.’

His hand is very hot and very dry. Donald nods, walking to the clavichord.

He plays, feeling forward with fingers and ears. At length Hendricks joins him, shuffling against the carpet.

‘Mr. Hendricks, please - ’ but Donald moves to make way for him.

Hendricks’ breath is coming faster – the effort of rising clearly almost too much for him – and little drops of sweat are standing out on his brow.

‘Andante,’ he says, ‘try it.’

Donald complies. The pace is interesting, he thinks, but – he looks at Hendricks out of the corner of his eye and wonders.

Hendricks says nothing when Donald plays, but Donald can feel him sitting up straighter. He doesn’t dare look, but he knows that Hendricks is regarding him intently. When Donald stumbles, cursing himself, he’s expecting a triumphant click of the tongue.

‘Not so easy,’ he says instead. He does sound a little satisfied, and Donald nods his head in silent acknowledgement of the reproof. ‘But,’ he goes on, ‘that was - ’ and he is silent so long that Donald turns his head to consider him. ‘It sounds,’ begins Hendricks, ‘why does it sound _different_ when you play?’

‘I thought the tempo - ’

‘Yes, yes,’ says Hendricks, with an impatient flap of the hand, ‘yes, it’s better so, you’re right, don’t gloat, Father, it’s unbecoming.’

Donald wasn’t gloating, but he thinks it’s bootless to say so. Hendricks has fallen silent, mulling something, his eyes burning on Donald’s face.

Donald holds his gaze. Hendricks’ eyes are very blue and very bright. Unnaturally bright, Donald knows. Supernaturally bright. Bright with a terrible darkling energy that Donald has only two nights to understand and defeat.

‘Again,’ says Hendricks.

Donald bends his head to the clavichord and begins again. He switches to allegro from the beginning of the movement, leaning in to try to make sure nothing slips between the sheet and his fingers.

He jars, twice, towards the middle and in the little arpeggio near the end. He winces each time, and has to force his fingers to straighten out and resume.

‘Again,’ is all that Hendricks says.

Donald nods. He can feel the music a little better now, can feel the shape of each note in his mouth and fingers a moment before he reaches for the next.

He still slips, though, and – with a tear of mortification – in the same places.

He looks fearfully at Hendricks, whose mouth twitches. ‘Again.’

And Donald is about to comply when Hendricks sags in his seat.

‘Mr. Hendricks, please, you must rest.’

‘It isn’t right yet,’ says Hendricks.

Donald says ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘But it isn’t _right_.’

And Hendricks snatches the music off the stand and lurches to his feet. Donald offers him his arm and, after a moment, Hendricks takes it.

And Donald, casting about feverishly for some way to smooth the lines of that flickering, vanishing, beautiful face, says ‘I’ll practise, Mr. Hendricks.’

‘Yes,’ says Hendricks, ‘you will,’ and it’s said off-handedly, even a little impatiently, the _of course_ implicit. Donald glows a little at the peremptoriness, the familiarity, the easy presumption that Hendricks’ concerns are Donald’s. _Of course I will_ , he smiles to himself.

Donald stays awake that night. He is considering whether to stand vigil over Hendricks in the hope of deterring his moonlit abductor, or whether to feign sleep and follow him to the ballroom. He decides on the latter course of action, and not a moment too soon, for he can feel a clammy waiting chill fall on the room. He forces the breath evenly in and out of his lungs, feels that roving beam of moonlight pass over his face as Hendricks walks out.

The cat and raven are waiting for him as they were last night.

‘Well, you contrived to stay awake, for once,’ says the raven. ‘I suppose that’s something.’

Donald bows his head and walks to the ballroom with the raven on his shoulder and the cat stalking beside him.

The music is playing – a gavotte this time. Donald throws a worried look at his companions, who look glum.

‘A visitor,’ says a voice, ‘how delightful.’

Donald’s eyes widen as a man in a scarlet domino appears before them. He has a hooked nose and his eyes glitter beneath his mask. His smile is wide and genial.

Donald bows uncomfortably. ‘I must ask your pardon, er - ’

‘You don’t need to know my name,’ says the man, his smile widening, ‘and it is certainly of no consequence to me what yours is.’

Donald stiffens his back. He says ‘Are we permitted to speak to Mr. Hendricks?’

‘Of course,’ says the man, ‘oh my goodness, of course. I’ll take you to him.’

Donald is murmuring his thanks as the man says ‘ _After_ the masque is done.’

‘After _you’re_ done with him, you mean,’ says the cat.

The man glances at the cat. ‘You have a familiar,’ he says, and takes in the raven, ‘two familiars. Are you demanding admittance for both?’

Donald swallows and nods.

‘How encroaching,’ says the man, wrinkling his nose. ‘And how fortunate for you that I am willing to overlook your errors of taste.’

The gavotte seems to be coming to a close, and Donald says ‘Sir, please, surely – surely Mr. Hendricks must need some repose between measures, if we - ’

And then – immediately, fluidly, as though mocking Donald’s words – it begins again.

‘A coranto,’ says the raven, its claws digging painfully into Donald’s shoulder. ‘He’ll never last, he can’t - ’

‘Please,’ says Donald, as the dancers spin and click, coming apart, whirling together, ‘this pace, he can’t – he’s ailing, you must - ’

‘Oh, I know,’ says the man in the mask, ‘but he may as well make himself useful while he can.’

Donald bristles. He thinks of the sheen of perspiration on that beautiful fevered brow, of Lady Hall’s pinched face, of the weight of the raven’s claws and the cat’s studied indifference. ‘He is of use already,’ he hears a voice saying, and realises it is his own.

 _You will practise, Father Donald_.

The man considers Donald with his head to one side, and Donald meets his gaze as best as he is able. ‘Come,’ he says at length, ‘I’ll take you to him.’

Donald nods and steps into the ballroom. The gentleman says ‘But your menagerie is not permitted.’

The cat shrugs, and the raven flutters off Donald’s shoulder. ‘Go,’ it says, ‘it’s further than we ever contrived.’

With an apprehensive glance over his shoulder, Donald follows the gentleman.

The dancers part before them, Donald notices – gracefully, as though simply consenting tacitly to split the floor in twain.

They reach a pianoforte, with a familiar figure hunched over it, thin fingers flying over the keys.

‘There,’ says the gentleman, ‘there he is.’

‘Mr. Hendricks,’ says Donald, ‘Mr. Hendricks, it’s Father Donald.’

He takes a step forward, and then another, and then another. The music continues, clicking and whirring.

‘Please, Mr. Hendricks.’

The curly head lifts slowly, seemingly entirely independent of the fingers moving over the keys. Hendricks stares at Donald, eyes burning in his face.

There’s green under his skin, thinks Donald. He turns to the gentleman. ‘Please, sir, I must ask – will you not permit him to rest? You must see - ’

‘He doesn’t want to rest,’ says the gentleman.

Donald turns to look at him. ‘I think,’ he says, ‘that Mr. Hendricks may be permitted to speak for himself.’

‘I don’t …. want ….. to rest,’ says Hendricks. He says the words slowly, as though dredging them reluctantly from somewhere deep and remote.

The gentleman smiles. ‘You see?’

Donald turns back to Hendricks. ‘Please, Mr. Hendricks, I do not know what thrall, or, or promise has been made to you, but it is false, I assure you, we can - ’

‘Father,’ says Hendricks, staring at Donald, ‘it’s close. It’s, it’s almost there, Father.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ says Donald. He doesn’t know to what Hendricks refers, but he knows what he says is true. ‘Mr. Hendricks, it doesn’t matter.’

‘It does,’ says Hendricks, lips thinning. His head drops to the pianoforte.

‘That will do,’ says the gentleman. ‘You trespass on my good humour, foundling.’

The dancers pull Donald in by his robes, and he watches helplessly as the pianoforte recedes.

At the door, the gentleman says to Donald ‘Come again, foundling.’ He smiles. ‘I think you strengthen the little man’s resolve.’

Donald winces.

There is a long silence.

‘What did you say to him?,’ asks the raven.

Donald shakes his head. ‘He said ‘It’s close.’ I think – he’s writing a piece, a, a sonata, could that - ’

The raven sighs. ‘It’s all of a piece,’ he says, ‘I don’t think he even realises what is being done to him.’

‘I think he realises,’ says Donald, ‘but he may not – care, perhaps.’ He frowns. ‘We will have to – bring him to a sense of the consequences.’

He looks at the raven and the cat, who are staring back with supremely unimpressed expressions.

‘Make him care,’ says the cat, flatly.

‘How,’ says the raven ‘do you intend to do this?’

Donald shrugs a little helplessly. ‘The – the gentleman said that he would allow me to, to converse with Mr. Hendricks.’

‘Because you would strengthen his resolve,’ says the raven.

‘Yes,’ says the cat, ‘you will forgive me, Father, if I remain unconvinced that your conversation will set us free.’

‘I don’t think,’ says Donald, ‘that there is an alternative.’

The cat and the raven exchange glum looks and sigh.

‘I suppose not,’ says the raven. ‘But please try to marshall your thoughts, Father.’

‘And don’t fall asleep,’ adds the cat.

* * *

 

‘I do not know the gentleman’s name,’ Donald tells Lady Hall the next morning. ‘But we may have a more pressing concern. Lady Hall, your brother did not seem to want to leave.’

Lady Hall’s eyes widen. ‘What – what was keeping him?’

‘I do not know, Lady Hall,’ says Donald. ‘But I think – I believe he felt that the – that where he was held – helped him to compose.’

Lady Hall frowned. ‘That’s absurd, he’s been writing music as long as I’ve known him, he can’t possibly - ’

Donald nods, but can only offer ‘He said that he needed to make it perfect.’

And Donald can see it, see the flare of real and urgent fear in Lady Hall’s eyes. ‘Perfect,’ she says at length, and there is such beauty in the weariness and exasperation and helpless rage in her voice.

Donald thinks that it would have been nice to have a sister, perhaps.

* * *

‘My wife tells me,’ says Lord Hall later, ‘that a spectral gentleman of some sort has my brother-in-law in thrall.’

Donald nods. He is honoured, and a little awed, that Lord Hall himself has asked for Donald’s presence, and is not sure whether to be relieved or alarmed at Lord Hall’s phlegmatic precis of the situation. There is none of Lady Hall’s well-bred embarrassment, at her slight irritation at being placed in such an untenable position by her brother.

‘What did the gentleman look like?,’ asks Lord Hall, and Donald offers as much of a description as he is capable of. Lord Hall listens and sighs.

‘My great-uncle,’ says Lord Hall, ‘was a,’ he pauses to search for the word, ‘vainglorious man. He wanted – wants, apparently – to live forever, and chose some,’ another pause, ‘unscientific…ways of doing so.’

There is a great and weary distaste in Lord Hall as he speaks, and Donald feels warmed and dwarfed by it. ‘You do not care for his objectives, Lord Hall, or his methods?’

Lord Hall’s eyes wander to Donald’s. He holds his gaze with seeming difficulty before looking away. ‘Yes,’ he says.

Donald waits a moment and then, seeing that Lord Hall vouchsafes no elaboration, nods. ‘What were his methods, Lord Hall?’

‘Oh,’ says Lord Hall, ‘weak tea, the blood of naked virgins fresh from the vein, French onions, all very slapdash.’

Donald blinks. ‘French onions are very nutritious, I have heard,’ he offers.

‘Perhaps,’ says Lord Hall, ‘though he took absolutely no care to calibrate the _quantities_ he ingested.’ His eyes find Donald’s again.

‘That was irresponsible of him,’ says Donald, and Hall nods back lugubriously.

There is a silence for entirely too long to be comfortable. Donald looks at Lord Hall and does not feel especially presumptuous doing so, since Hall seems to feel under no obligation to look back.

‘You should…dress suitably for this ball,’ he announces at length.

Donald considers. ‘You think that I irked Mr. Henricks’ host with my attire?’, he asks.

‘I think,’ says Lord Hall, ‘that you should dress as though you were invited.’

‘But I was not,’ says Donald, apologetically.

‘You were invited,’ says Lord Hall, ‘to my house. Where the ball is held.’

Donald finds this line of reasoning meretricious, but does not feel he is in a position to refuse assistance of any sort, no matter how ultimately futile. He murmurs his thanks as Hall says ‘I will ask my wife. She knows about such things.’

The domino sent up to Hendricks’ bedchamber is long and sleek and of a shade of scarlet startlingly close to that worn by the gentleman. Donald smooths a hand over the rich velvet, and wishes he could be more eloquent in his thanks.

Hendricks is lying against the pillows, thin chest rising and falling rapidly. He watches Donald with too-bright eyes and Donald is unsurprised when he calls him over, pressing new sheets into his hand with quick, hot movements.

Donald plays and stops abruptly as he hears a shuffle behind him. He rises swiftly and offers Hendricks his arm, and sets his teeth as Hendricks’ thin fingers clamp on.

‘Again,’ says Hendricks, and Donald begins from the beginning.

‘Continue,’ he says when Donald pauses.

‘Again,’ when Donald finishes.

Donald plays through, conscious of Hendricks’ eyes on him but not daring to turn his head. Hendricks burns Donald through the thin stuff of his nightshirt, bony fingers drumming against the bench.

‘Again,’ he says, and Donald plays again, eyes on the music.

‘It’s not right,’ Hendricks says at length, leaping and febrile.

‘It’s beautiful,’ says Donald. ‘That’s far more important.’ The words are implacable and unquiet.

There is a silence. ‘Why do you,’ begins Hendricks. ‘You sound certain.’

Donald nods. He will not look at Hendricks.

‘Why?,’ says Hendricks.

Donald blinks. ‘Why what, Mr. Hendricks?’

‘Why,’ says Hendricks, ‘do you care?’

Donald’s back straightens and Hendricks hastens on. ‘I know it is your, your trade to tell me that life is precious, and, and a gift, and can we take that as read, Father? Why – if I tell you that I want to make this perfect – why is that not - ?’

He stops to claw back breath, in painful, racking gasps. ‘You can hear it, I, I know you can, you, what you see in it, what you can make of it, I – you’ll see when it’s perfect, more than – you of all people, Father - ’

‘You will not,’ says Donald then. He opens his eyes at the silver thread of anger in his voice. ‘You will not say that you do this thing for me. You will not. I will not permit it.’

There is another silence. ‘No,’ says Hendricks at length, his voice soft, ‘not – for you. But – when I – you will – you’ll see why.’

‘I _see_ why,’ says Donald, ‘and I still think - ’ he leans closer to the music, he will not look at Hendricks, he will not, ‘I think - ’ and it is, it is too hard to counsel and to prune his words while he is committing the music to memory, ‘I – envy you, I think.’

Hendricks shifts on the bench. ‘Envy?’

‘Envy,’ says Donald. ‘Envy of your unwavering eye to what lives on after you.’

Hendricks squirms again. ‘I don’t – I only want the music to be right.’

‘Your work,’ says Donald, ‘you seek to ensure that the work that survives you does you credit.’

‘Yes?’

Donald nods. ‘The everlasting is my trade, as you put it, Mr. Hendricks. I envy you your singlemindedness.’

There is a silence. Then Hendricks speaks. ‘My music is all I _do_ leave behind, Father.’

‘It is not, Mr. Hendricks,’ says Donald, ‘and I know you know it.’

Another silence. Donald continues ‘There is a luxury to it, I think. I think if I knew – if I knew for certain that I – that my earthly gifts included - ’ he swallows, ‘that I were loved, that I would be mourned, I think I – ‘ his fingers slow, ‘no, Mr. Hendricks, I cannot say that I would be so careless.’

There is a long silence, and then Hendricks speaks. ‘The gentleman called you a - ’

‘A foundling, yes,’ says Donald.

Hendricks says nothing and Donald is grateful for it. At length there is a quiet ‘You’ll play the sonata,’ a pause and then, ‘and then you’ll see.’

Donald wants, terribly, to say that he’ll never play Hendricks’ music again – that he’ll never touch this thing for which Hendricks is so profligate with himself. Almost he says it. Almost.

‘Mr. Hendricks - ’

‘I’m tired,’ says Hendricks. ‘I’m going to bed.’

Donald offers him the use of his arm. Waves away his protestations to lower him into his bed and tuck the covers around him.

‘You’re not my nursemaid, Father.’

Donald says ‘Mr. Hendricks, will you stay here tonight?’

Hendricks’ eyes dart away, and Donald’s heart sinks.

* * *

 

The moonlight comes for Hendricks again later that night. Donald waits before pulling on his borrowed domino and walking through the flames.

‘You’ve changed your vestments,’ says the cat when he sees Donald. ‘Am I to assume that you have a campaign in mind?’

Donald shakes his head and pulls on his mask. ‘I think perhaps that I might be likelier to escape detection and converse with Mr. Hendricks.’

‘And what will you say to him?’

Donald says nothing, and the cat and raven sigh in unison.

Donald steps through the threshold into the room. He feels heads turn to him. There is no curiosity in the revenants’ eyes, only the unthinking compulsion of a scrap of iron for a lodestone.

Time to put Lord Hall’s hypothesis to the test, thinks Donald. He stiffens his spine and steps onto the floor. He holds out a hand and it is taken. He is spun, twirled, deposited a foot away. Through the whirring and clicking of heels of the dancers, he can see the pianoforte and the glint of familiar curls. Donald seizes the hand of a dancer – it may have been female once – and spins. Before she can feel the blood and muscle shift beneath his skin, he takes the hand of another.

Ducking. Weaving. Spinning. Twirling. By degrees – wandering, wondering, inexact – he arrives at the outer edge of the floor closest to the pianoforte.

He pulls down his hands and steps out. He is not stopped.

Hendricks’ fingers are flying over the keyboard – a jig, thinks Donald, he’ll never last, he can’t – and Donald fears to raise his voice too high lest he be heard. He drifts closer to Hendricks, hoping that the dancers do not notice his absence.

‘Mr. Hendricks.’

Hendricks is still playing.

‘Mr. Hendricks.’

Presto, molto presto.

‘Mr. _Hendricks_.’

Hendricks raises his head. ‘Father?’

Donald nods, but says ‘I will ask you to lower your voice, Mr. Hendricks. I would prefer not to draw attention to my presence.’

‘You’re allowed here,’ says Hendricks, with a frown.

‘Yes,’ says Donald, ‘but conversing with you – perhaps not without supervision.’

Hendricks watches him, still playing. ‘You’re trying to make me leave with you.’

Donald nods.

‘I will,’ says Hendricks, ‘but I need - ’

‘Please, Mr. Hendricks,’ says Donald.

‘There’s no time,’ says Hendricks, ‘you can’t – it’s in my head, and if I can’t get it out, if I can’t dig it out, then it won’t – I’ll never be able to, I can’t do anything else, Father,’ and there are tears in his eyes, ‘I, I know what you’ll say, and I wish I could, I wish I could, but if I can’t hold it, if I can’t get it down, it’s like dying, Father, please - ’

‘But,’ says Donald, his heart breaking for him, ‘but why _here_?’

Hendricks shakes his head desperately. ‘It’s louder here,’ he says, ‘it – I can – I can grasp it, it, it’ll stay for me, here, it waits for me.’ He swallows. ‘Waits longer at any rate.’

Donald opens his mouth to speak further but he can feel the dancers beginning to slow, even though Hendricks is still playing. He sighs. ‘I will return, Mr. Hendricks.’

He suffers himself to be transported across the floor to the cat and raven and tells them what Hendricks said.

‘There’s paper,’ says the cat, ‘in the library.’

‘But he can’t write it down, can he?,’ asks the raven. ‘Not while he’s playing.’

‘And he must play,’ says the cat, ‘whatever it is that this place gives him, it extracts what it needs when he plays.’

‘Does it have to be him?,’ asks the raven.

‘I do not know,’ says Donald, his heart lifting. If someone could take Hendricks’ place, to allow him time to transcribe the melody, then perhaps –

Donald tightens his mask onto his face, and steps once more onto the floor. Once he has been washed ashore at Hendricks’ feet, he places his proposition before him. Hendricks’ eyes light up before he looks down.

‘I can’t,’ he says, ‘it’s too – I can’t permit you to do it.’

‘It’s only until it’s right,’ says Donald. ‘You’re close, aren’t you? I – I could feel it, Mr. Hendricks. You’re close.’

Hendricks nods.

‘You trust me to play, don’t you, Mr. Hendricks?’

Hendricks’ head jerks up. He nods again.

‘Then let me.’

Hendricks’ eyes are huge. He looks terrified and hungry. Donald steps closer. Places a hand on Hendricks’ shoulder, thin and burning. Gently he moves him aside and sits down.

The instant his fingers touch the keyboard, Donald feels it: a great eddy, churning and swirling, a force as though every head on a wave has turned to stare at him; at him in his tiny boat made of paper. He is lifted, he is tossed and flung; he is not playing, he thinks, so much as trying – desperately – to wave to shore.

It wants him, he thinks, it reaches for him, so hungry, such a gaping clamour.

He hears a gasp beside him and lifts his head to see. Hendricks is staring down at him, fingers twitching.

‘Paper,’ says Donald, with some difficulty, ‘In the library. The cat – the raven – they will – take you.’

‘Father, are you - ’

‘I see you have an accompanist,’ says a familiar voice. Donald’s head has been pulled towards the keyboard, but he knows it is the gentleman.

‘Mr. Hendricks will – take what you have offered him,’ says Donald. ‘I will – play until he is finished. Your dance ….. continues …. uninterrupted.’

‘It does,’ says the gentleman, delighted. ‘And you play rather better than he does, and with none of his _tiresome_ interruptions.’

‘Interruptions?’

‘Interruptions,’ says the gentleman. ‘I had to spare you, Mr. Hendricks, to your _tedious_ daylight mediocrities – your sister, my absurd great-nephew – but the foundling here,’ and a hand dips sharply on Donald’s shoulder, ‘why, he is ours to keep!’

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Hendricks. The music surges around Donald, mine, mine, mine, it breathes.

‘You cannot - ’

‘I can,’ says the gentleman, ‘and really, little man, I do not see that you have any grounds for complaint. You got up, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t know - ’

‘Oh, well,’ says the gentleman, ‘if you think ignorance is any protection, I really do not know what to tell you.’

‘He didn’t either,’ says Hendricks, ‘you can’t - ’

‘I know now,’ says Donald, lifting his heavy head until he finds Hendricks. ‘You should leave, Mr. Hendricks.’

Hendricks steps closer. ‘I’m taking you with me.’

The gentleman clicks his tongue. ‘You found a substitute, little man. Take your melody and your soul and go.’

‘Father,’ says Hendricks, urgently, ‘come with me.’

His eyes are very blue, thinks Donald. He and his sister look nothing alike.

‘Will you smile,’ says Donald, ‘when you see her?’

‘Father - ’

‘Your sister. Will you embrace her?’

‘Father, please - ’

‘You should, I think,’ says Donald, ‘Where you love, you should.’

The music is pulling at Donald now, a peremptory undertow.

‘It is good,’ he tells Hendricks, ‘to be of use.’

‘Forever,’ crows the gentleman.

‘Forever,’ says Donald, ‘the everlasting is my trade, Mr. Hendricks.’

‘No,’ says Hendricks. His breath is coming very quickly. ‘It’s not – you’ll take me instead, you can’t - ’

‘He’s better,’ says the gentleman. ‘He’s a vastly superior exponent, and he wants nothing more than to be needed. You have your tune, little man. Take it and go.’

‘You shan’t take him,’ says Hendricks, stepping closer.

‘Please, Mr. Hendricks,’ says Donald, ‘this isn’t necessary.’

‘You shan’t,’ says Hendricks, ‘have him.’

The gentleman’s hand drops once again on Donald’s shoulder – and then is jerked away.

‘What the deuce - ?’

There is the sound of wings beating, and then Donald feels claws on his shoulder.

‘Get up,’ says the raven, and then nudges Donald with its head.

‘Mr. Raven - ’

‘Oh thunder and turf,’ says the raven in disgust, ‘I’ll tell you my name if you get up. Quickly, while Gilfoyle has him.’

‘Gilf - ’

The raven butts Donald, ungently. Donald turns to see the cat, darting and nipping and slashing at the gentleman’s domino.

‘Come on,’ says Hendricks, pulling at Donald’s wrist.

‘I don’t - ’

‘Me,’ says Hendricks, loudly, to the gentleman, ‘Me. I claim him. Me. You will – you’d need to. Release him. To me.’

The gentleman’s lip pulls back from very long teeth. ‘Only in the daytime.’

‘Very well then,’ says Hendricks, ‘stop us from leaving.’

There is a long tearing sound, and the gentleman turns on the cat in fury as it dances away.

‘You can’t, I think,’ says Hendricks, ‘he – he didn’t ask for anything, did he? So you have nothing to keep him here.’ He turns to Donald. ‘The music,’ he says, ‘you have to – I need you for the music.’

And Donald feels the wave break. His back straightens and he gazes at Hendricks. ‘Mr. Hendricks, I - ’

‘Come with me,’ says Hendricks, and Donald nods. He rises and smooths his hands down the domino.

There is a howl of rage beside him and a long hand reaches for him.

‘No!,’ he hears, before bones clutch at his throat.

* * *

 

‘Well, he certainly can sleep, I’ll give him that much.’

‘Hush, he’s waking now.’

His eyes open and faces swim before him. He thinks they’re familiar, though he knows he’s never seen them before. They belong to two gentleman, one small and Asiatic, the other saturnine and with a carefully unruly beard.

‘Bertram Gilfoyle,’ says the bearded man, ‘and that one is Dinesh Chughtai.’

‘The cat,’ he says, staring at – Gilfoyle, did he say? – ‘the raven.’

The cat makes a small bow. ‘At your service, Father.’

He frowns. ‘I – no, not - ’

‘Your title,’ says the raven, stepping closer, ‘would you prefer - ’

He shakes his head again. ‘Not – no, that isn’t - ’

The two of them exchange an uneasy glance. ‘You are a priest,’ says the raven, slowly and carefully, ‘do you – Father, don’t you remember?’

He shivers, sitting upright. ‘I – it isn’t – memory is not at – at issue. I – I believe you, gentlemen, but I cannot - ’

‘You’re awake,’ says a voice at the door. Hendricks has entered. He smiles, ducking his head a little. ‘Monica was concerned.’

‘If he’s not ‘Father’ anymore,’ says the raven, ‘do we call him – what was his name? It seems over-familiar to call him ‘Donald’, you know.’

‘That’s not my name,’ he says.

They stare at him for a pace. ‘What is, then?’

He shakes his head. ‘I – it was – taken from me.’

Hendricks takes in a breath. ‘The gentleman,’ he says, and reaches out a hand. ‘May I - ?’

He nods, of course. Of course Hendricks is permitted to touch him, wherever and however he chooses, of course he is.

Hendricks’ fingers brush his throat, and there’s a sharp intake of breath.

‘A burn,’ says the raven, ‘where did that - ?’

‘He ripped his collar off,’ says the cat, ‘as we were leaving.’

The raven purses his lips. ‘D’you think he took the priest’s - ?’

‘I am not a priest,’ he says. He is immensely and urgently clear about that. ‘Not – no longer.’

‘He took them from you,’ says the raven. ‘Your name, your - ’

‘He took Father Donald,’ says Hendricks, ‘but I – I claimed _you_.’

He nods. ‘I – I will earnestly endeavour, Mr. Hendricks, to – you will not regret the bargain you have made.’

‘ _He_ didn’t make the bargain,’ points out the raven. ‘You did.’

‘And we wish the gentleman joy of your name and collar,’ says the cat. ‘But meantime, no-longer-priest and no-longer-Donald, who are you?’

He shrinks back against the pillows. ‘I – I don’t know.’

‘Jared,’ says Hendricks. He looks at him. ‘It means a setting down, a, a ruling. Jared.’

‘Jared,’ he whispers. ‘Jared.’

The cat and raven shrug. ‘Jared it is, then.’

‘And of course he’s not a priest,’ says Hendricks. ‘He’s coming with us.’

‘You don’t write anything for the pianoforte,’ says the raven.

Hendricks’ eyes are still on Jared. ‘I do now.’

He continues, staring at Jared: ‘You rely too much on sight-reading, you know.’

Jared nods.

‘And your fingering is careless.’

Jared nods.

‘Monica says I must let you rest today, but from tomorrow you’ll have to practise.’

Jared nods.

‘Practise for what?,’ says the cat.

‘A ballet,’ says Hendricks. ‘I’m writing a ballet.’

‘A what?,’ says the raven, with every evidence of disgust.

‘A ballet,’ says Hendricks.

‘I thought,’ says Jared, ‘that you did not care overmuch for narrative music.’

Hendricks shrugs.

‘It remains to be seen,’ says the cat, ‘just how much of a story Dick will contrive to tell.’

‘What is it about?,’ says the raven. ‘I might as well know what it’s meant to be.’

‘It’s about the _Rattenfanger von Hameln_ ,’ says Hendricks.

‘A children’s story?,’ says the cat. ‘O ye Gods, it only needed that.’

‘Good part for the flute,’ says Hendricks absently, and the raven sniffs with somewhat overdone indifference, ‘and you’ll like the jig, Gilfoyle. You keep plaguing me to do something with the fiddle.’

He hasn’t taken his eyes off Jared.

‘It isn’t right yet,’ he says slowly, ‘I wanted to make it perfect.’

‘You will,’ says Jared, ‘you will.’

A muscle leaps in Hendricks’ jaw. ‘You seem so certain.’

‘I am,’ says Jared, ‘it may take longer now, but you have time.’

Hendricks’ eyes flutter shut. The cat breaks in on them: ‘What will you call it? The ballet?’

‘Oh,’ says Hendricks, ‘Pied Piper.’

‘Oh dear Lord,’ says the raven, ‘why do you so loathe what you make?’

‘You’ll make us use the name too,’ says the cat, ‘I know you, Dick.’

‘He’s made us maul our tongues with every clodhopping name he’s ever devised,’ says the raven.

‘It’s an old fairytale,’ says Hendricks, with a mulish set to his jaw, ‘and I named Jared, didn’t I?’

‘You did,’ says Jared, ‘you did.’

‘Yes,’ says the cat, ‘and about that - ’

‘We can make it up to him, you know,’ says the raven, ‘we have time. We can find him the right name.’

‘It _is_ right,’ says Hendricks, ‘and we should let _Jared_ rest.’

‘It doesn’t have to be right,’ says Jared, as they leave, ‘it’s beautiful.’

The last thing he sees before his eyes close is Hendricks’ smile.

**Author's Note:**

> With my infinite gratitude to Neurofancier, Beefmaster and Joycecarolnotes for their gentle encouragement and beta-ing.
> 
> My tumblr handle is itsevidentvery, if you'd like to come yell with me there.


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